


Losers, Weepers

by osamakes (sinuous_curve)



Series: All's Fair [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: /taps for the circus pants, Anal Sex, Bets & Wagers, Bottom Iron Bull, Genital Piercing, M/M, Possession, Rimming, Role Reversal, Top Dorian Pavus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 01:39:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4858316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinuous_curve/pseuds/osamakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian is quite magnanimous in victory, and perfectly willing to reward Bull for being so gracious in defeat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losers, Weepers

The pants are burned as the sun rises on a morning of great solemnity. Bull requested the match be lit by someone with greater respect for them than Dorian, and Dorian, feeling magnanimous in his victory, agreed. Thus it's Krem -- gamely making an effort to keep from rolling his eyes -- who lights the funeral pyre. A handful of guards finishing up night watch respectfully lower their eyes. Stitches sings a mournful hymn. 

Dorian manages not to cackle as the flames turn fabric to ash. _Fare thee fucking well, you blight upon the eyesight of humanity._

The party then retires to the Herald's Rest, despite it being somewhat early in the day for even a spoiled Tevinter brat like Dorian. The barkeep pours a round on the house for the mourners; Dorian is excluded at Bull's protest that it's rich for the judge and executioner to expect the bereaved to buy them a drink. 

As the day wears on, Sera joins them wearing her offensively yellow leggings, the Inquisitor raises a cup and says she might create the Order of Pants to recognize valor in the face of prejudice, and Maryden debuts a new song about the nobility of their fallen comrade. Dorian regrets absolutely nothing and smiles sweetly at Bull each time he puts down his own coin for a new drink. 

"There is nothing in Fereldan, Orlais, or Tevinter that could possibly taint the glory of this victory," he tells Varric, while Bull tells a cheering crowd about the time the dearly lamented pants saved his life by taking a dagger meant for his knee. 

Varric raises an eyebrow. "You two have weird sex." 

Dorian begins to protest, but well. He's not wrong. 

When dusk falls and Dorian and Bull finally rise to leave, someone yells, "Chief, how can you trust him with your cock after this?" 

With great dignity, Dorian raises his chin and replies, "His cock is of far greater aesthetic value than those fucking pants," and they depart to raucous, drunken laughter and someone calling for Maryden to sing the pants song again.

They lean against each to cross the courtyard and mount the steps to the main hall. Dorian is warm and feels good, loose and triumphant. Beneath that is an absurd pleasure that holes in the sky aside, his life has led to Bull's broad hand on the small of his back and the promise of a shared bed.

"You know, at least three people asked if I was gonna go naked now," Bull says, opening the door to what is technically Dorian's and practically their room. 

Dorian snorts. "As if I would share that wantonly."

"That's what I said. They all seemed kind of disappointed." 

"Well, I suppose it's reasonable that not all Fereldans secretly dream of their dogs." 

Bull laughs, closing and bolting the door behind them. A fire burns cheerfully at the hearth and the lamps are lit. Dorian makes a mental note to thank the Inquisitor, most likely, considering the predatory hunger with which Dorian sees her look at the dear commander. The woman excels at forward thinking. 

Grinning, Bull drops onto the bed and begins to undress. As he was, much to Dorian's despair, serious about only owning the one pair of pants, he attended the pyre wrapped elegantly in several sheets. Undressing is a matter of undoing knots and, what that proves too irksome, ripping the fabric and kicking the remnants across the floor. 

Dorian is unable to stop an appreciative noise. 

"Yeah? Tell me more, kadan." Bull bats his eyelashes. 

"I'm merely appreciating the absence," Dorian says sweetly. 

"You're a crap liar." 

_Only when it comes to you_ , Dorian thinks, but refrains from saying. A small knot of warm anticipation blossoms low and sweet in his belly as he begins undoing his own buckles and laces. Shall the day when they're naked in the same room and uninterested never come. 

Bull watches him with a lazy grin and frank appreciation, one hand idly cupping his pierced cock. Sense memory washes gently over him: the slap of Bull's skin against his, those unyielding rings, the searing hot wash of Bull coming and Dorian _winning_. Dorian is competitive in all things, but oh, some victories are just sweeter than others. 

Once he's naked, he curls the corner of his mouth in a smile and advances toward Bull. 

"I regret nothing at all," Dorian tells him. "Not only was that bet your idea, I won it entirely fairly."

"If you come over here we can try two out of three." 

Dorian laughs. A rematch is not an unappealing offer. 

And yet. 

He's the first to admit there is a rhythm to what they do. Bull's sexuality is, in many ways, shaped by his innate versatility and by the sheer breadth of things that he likes. Dorian's tastes are perhaps narrower, and yes, how shocking that a lifetime of maintaining control would make one seek surrender in the bedroom. It's so obvious, he should likely be ashamed. 

But it's so fucking good and the shame grows smaller and smaller as time goes on. What's the point of fucking someone Bull's size if you never have them hold you down?

And _yet_. With the heat in his belly and something sharp-fanged and clawed in his chest, still hot from victory and wildly, ridiculously pleased at the physical proof of the burning pyre. He _won_ and the thing inside him that loves so dearly to roll over and show his belly is content to be quiet. 

When he reaches the bed, Bull grips Dorian's hips and pulls him close. He pets, big hands roaming over Dorian from ribs to knees. Dorian closes his eyes in simple pleasure. It is almost without conscious thought that he circles his hands around Bull's horns. 

"Been thinking about you all fucking day, kadan," Bull murmurs. "Thinking about how you looked and how fucking good it felt to lose." 

Dorian shudders. "Are you not the one who can go on and on about the virtues of submission?"

"Losing isn't the same thing as submitting." 

And then, a completely obvious idea. And it still washes sharp, toothy heat across Dorian's skin. 

"You've been so gracious in your defeat," he says, jerking Bull's head back. Bull makes a noise of surprise and resists; it's the resistance that takes Dorian from curious to utterly fucking certain. He smiles. "That in and of itself deserves a reward, don't you think? Get on your hands and knees." 

Bull inhales audibly. 

They have not _done_ this. They have only barely _discussed_ this. 

"Kadan," Bull says, swallowing hard. "Kadan, you don't--"

"Have to? I am well aware."

And oh, but it's strange and funny to be on this side of it. Watching Bull flush that strange reddish purple that qunari skin turns. Seeing his throat work as he swallows. The Iron fucking Bull, clever tongued and all-seeing, reduced to scrambling for his words like a Tevinter brat fucking in the sunlight for the first time. 

Dorian leans down, nips at Bull's bottom lip. "I want to, amatus. That is, of course, if you ask nicely."

"Please," Bull says, low and rough. Desperation! Dorian revels. 

"Alas, that's not quite good enough. Perhaps you should try _begging_." 

Bull shudders and his hands tighten around Dorian's hips. In the back of his mind, Dorian is aware that in this reversal, he can't force Bull to do anything. But that sharpens the heat in Dorian's skin. Whatever obedience Bull offers will be purely of his own desire. _How badly do you desire me_? 

"I didn't think you had this in you, kadan."

"I have uncharted depths, and that didn't sound like begging." 

Bull closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them there's a light behind his gaze that Dorian has never seen before. "Please, kadan, please. I need you so fucking bad I can't fucking stand it." 

It's genuine, Dorian realizes. 

He has never doubted Bull when he said both sides of the coin brought pleasures that were only different, but of equal worth. Seeing it, though, is another experience entirely. Wildly, Dorian thinks that he can now possibly understand why someone would be drawn to this alone. 

"Pray tell what you need from me."

" _Fuck_ me, kadan, please. I'll do anything you want if you'll just fuck me, I've been thinking about it for so long and I need it so fucking bad." 

Dorian, admittedly, has never excelled at denial. 

"Get on your hands and knees, then."

Bull's movement is graceless for desperation. The bed creaks somewhat ominously, but Dorian is content to ignore that. It wouldn't be the first they've broken and at least this one isn't a wall away from a loud tavern prone to unnecessary commentary. Dorian is aware of his cock hardening, though distantly. It's secondary awareness to watching Bull arrange himself.

It's less that his typical competency is gone, Dorian thinks. No, he doubts Bull is capable of being incompetent. It's control that Bull has let slip away. What trust, that. Dorian exhales slowly and carefully. What fucking trust. 

"Kadan?" Bull says, the second syllable canting into question. Dorian lays a hand on the small of Bull's back but says nothing. 

They are reversed, but the script is essentially the same. Bull stills for a moment, then some tension eases out of him. It's vulnerable, of course, to let your body beg so blatantly. Dorian digs his fingers into the hard, solid muscle on either side of Bull's spine and considers. 

Human, qunari -- Dorian assumes elf and dwarf -- the essential anatomy is the same. The fact of it being Bull makes it more appealing and so on and so forth; yes, it's all nauseatingly romantic and Dorian protests it all as frankly unnecessary. It _does_ matter, though, and Dorian realizes he would not do this for anyone else. How ridiculous. 

"Kadan," Bull says again. 

"I haven't gone anywhere, amatus. I shall let you know if I do." 

Bull's laughter is more physical than heard. It shivers down his spine. Dorian smirks to himself. 

Stages, then, Dorian decides, and bends to press his tongue to the tight circle of Bull's anus. 

Bull's response is _gratifying_. 

His gasps, not unlike the pained sound of Krem landing a stick to his ribs during that ridiculous Qun exercise of beating the fear out. Dorian's inclination toward filth only comes out when he's far close to the line of mindless desperation, but apparently single-minded thoroughness has its own merits. He digs his fingers into Bull's back again and presses. For once, the rational thought of how base this act is he can easily ignore. 

Bull tastes -- Bull tastes like everyone Dorian has ever fucked when it comes to sweat and skin. Yes, there's some sense of leather, perhaps, and quite possible the faint note of his fucking horn balm. Dorian does not particularly wish to know how that happened. But it is mostly skin, alive and warm in its musk, and sweat and all the low notes of living that Tevinter desperately tries to hide. 

Dorian feels dirty. No, this isn't something foul. Raunchy, then. And isn't that a ridiculous word. 

He can't keep himself from a choked laugh when Bull's hips buck forward and he draws back, mouth slick and wet, raw on the edges. "Be still, you fucking beast."

Bull jerks his head back and curses in a mix of common and Qunlat, with a few choice Tevene phrases. "You're a fuckin' _tease_ ," Dorian is able to pick out from the garble. 

"You're right," he agrees. "I really am. Now, be _still_." 

And sensing the need for emphasis, Dorian pushes a hand between Bull's thighs and takes Bull's balls in his fist. Not too tightly, of course. (Dorian accepts pain, even revels in it when the stars align; dealing in deliberate pain is another thing entirely. Another of those irritatingly reasonable responses, given his past. He deigns not to consider them.) He can feel the metal in Bull's cock against his knuckles, chill compared to Bull's skin. 

Bull stills and the pitch of his babble turns into a low growl. _Animal_ , Dorian thinks, but dismisses that thought. For Bull to call his guttural noises animal is different than Dorian doing the same. Bull isn't a fucking ox, no matter how he enjoys being called one. 

"That's better," Dorian says, mildly. Though he hears the catch around the words from his own breath. There's a much different stamina required in giving than in taking, and for the moment he's content to let his thumb rest at Bull's entrance, still slick with saliva, slowly moving it in a circle. 

He considers a hundred options in heartbeats, both possible and ridiculous, as he looks down at Bull. Bull's breath comes in heaving, uncontrolled pants that bell out his sides and linger in the room. He's shivering, too, in desire and strain. Undone, Dorian thinks. So this is what it looks like when you make someone come undone, without quite being undone yourself. 

Bull would deal in denial; Dorian rejects that thought. He has no talent for it and denial is only pleasurable when undertaken with joy. 

"Tell me I am gracious in victory," Dorian says.

Bull huffs and grunts, shifting. "You. Fuck, kadan. You are very fucking gracious." 

"Tell me I'm magnanimous in rewarding you." 

"You are--" an audible swallow, "so fucking magnanimous." 

Heat spikes inside Dorian, building toward something unfamiliar, and powerful. 

Dorian takes his cock in his hand, and yes, there's the immediacy of his own desire. He thumbs the golden ring pierced through the tip. Less ostentatious than Bull's ladder, perhaps, but he's always found the simplicity appealing. He shudders as he turns the ring and cooler metal slips inside. 

The first time, both of them lubricated by liquor and yet still not nearly as drunk as they pretended to be, Bull got his pants off and burst into laughter. Dorian nearly stormed out in humiliated rage before Bull managed to drag his hideous pants down and lift his cock in display. "We match," he'd crowed. "I'm gonna call it a sign." 

At the time, Dorian had strongly doubted the Maker worked through intimate piercings. He has revised that opinion slightly since then.

"I should like it if you would be loud," Dorian tells Bull, and drags the head of his cock along Bull's cleft. His skin is still wet from Dorian's mouth, from Dorian's teasing. 

Bull's invective crashes out like a dam released. The words themselves are nearly meaningless, but the feeling, yes. Yes, Dorian knows that feeling well. He can see Bull's thick fingers clawing into the blankets -- shredding them, actually, and Dorian inanely thinks that should settle the question of whether qunari have claws or nails. He's not shivering any longer. Shivering is not enough of a word for such desperately restrained tension. 

Dorian controls his breath. He controls the slide of his cock, slow and thorough. He has won, but there's no harm in emphasizing the victory. 

"That ring, that fucking ring, fuck, kadan, that _ring_!"

"Mm, yes. I haven't the slightest idea what that feels like." 

Bull's shakes his head from side to side, accidentally goring at least one stripe in the wall. He doesn't seem to notice. _Maker_ , Dorian thinks. _You would do anything I asked._

But, he realizes, he doesn't want to demand. He wants to reward. 

"You will tell me immediately if this hurts," Dorian says. "Do you understand?" Bull makes a noise and Dorian lifts his cock away from Bull's skin, a shiver going down his arms at the separation of sticky skin. "Words, amatus."

"Yes," Bull gasps, and doesn't shove his arse at Dorian, but not far off from it. "I under-fucking-stand." 

Dorian steadies himself with a hand on Bull's hip, spits onto the fingers of his other hand and eases the way as much as he dares before he pushes inside. 

Maker, Dorian knows this isn't how things should be done. He knows it's irresponsible, he knows that taking one's time only brings about greater pleasure, but. All his rational thought has fragmented away to a driving need that frightens him. There's something in his chest that says that if he stops, if he pauses, the moment will be gone and he already knows it's not a place that he can easily return to, this place where he can take so easily--take and take and take until the world ends. Once the choice is made to accept, all that remains is letting go. 

This is choice, and action. Feeling Bull's arms give and his hips arch back. The sound he makes is exquisite desperation, overwhelming need and Dorian hears, "Yes, yes, yes," chanted in a low, mindless rumble. The slide isn't wet, slick, or easy, but. 

Why fuck someone Bull's size if you don't take advantage of it? 

"Amatus?" Dorian's voice cracks. 

"Don't fucking _stop_ , oh, please, don't stop." 

Oh, it's graceless. Dorian knows that, and Bull's words, Bull's reactions, stroke heat in him despite that. This is neither Bull's planning nor his machinations, this is a collision of bodies meant for each other. Such ridiculous thoughts for something as common as fucking. Dorian can't possibly care as he drives into Bull again, scrambling for purchase at Bull's hips and clawing welts into his skin. 

How does Bull do this and not feel constantly as though he's going to die? 

Dorian must remember these sensations. He must remember the rasp of damp skin sliding together, the wet slap of his balls against Bull. Bull's words, reduced to jumbled, choked noises when words are incapable of saying what he wants. He must remember the tightness of Bull around him, even if he can never explain what makes it different from any other. It it different and it is _theirs_. 

And then the heat inside him is flaring outward, expanding upon itself. For a moment, Dorian resents it, resents the edge he can't avoid that keeps them from living in this moment forever. _But it doesn't mean an end_ , he thinks wildly. _I will sleep beside him and I will wake beside him--_

Dorian pulls out of Bull with a keening noise of desperation, and spills himself across Bull's back. His knees buckle and he drops, but that's as well. Bull's hips buck against empty air and he's _pleading_. Dorian pushes clumsy fingers between his thighs and wraps his hand around Bull's cock. 

Bull shouts and Dorian both sees and feels his back bow in climax. 

When Dorian is capable of movement, and Maker alone knows how much time passes before then, he manages to scramble onto the bed. Bull's sprawled on his belly in the shredded ruins on the blanket; his hips are crossed by trailing welts and Dorian's come shines wetly striped across his back. 

He grumbles a pleased noise and makes a weak, if endearing, effort to bat at Dorian with his knuckles. He cracks open his good eye and grins crookedly. " _Damn_ ," he rasps and Dorian's startled into rough, pleased, possibly exultant laughter. 

Without allowing himself time to think, he swipes his fingers through the come -- his come, he thinks, let's not choose this moment to play coy, say we -- and smears it along the base of Bull's horns, one and then the other. As soon as he's done it, rational horror floods his face with heat, but he refuses to acknowledge it. Bull opens his eye and looks at him and Dorian stares back. 

"Possessive," Bull says. 

Dorian raises a brow. "How very observant of you."

Bull chuckles. "You're just not usually a qun traditionalist."

"What on earth do you mean by that?" 

"Come on horns?" Bull smiles broadly. "It's a qun tradition. We don't do marriage, but hey. There's Dragon teeth, there's... that. It's respectable. The scent will linger for years." 

Dorian makes an explosive noise of disgust and Bull dissolves into laughter, reaching out and pulling Dorian to his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I went to Wife and asked if I could write the sequel and she said yes. I didn't realize she hadn't mentioned Dorian having his own piercings, so they're included here and je regret nothing.


End file.
